


Biding Time

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-02-21 08:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2462309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin Oakenshield saved Bilbo Baggin's life when he was a child, and Bilbo has been under the impression that they've been engaged all these long, lonely years. </p><p>But when Thorin returns, he doesn't seem to have the slightest memory of Bilbo, let alone their engagement.</p><p>Bilbo is sad and confused, but determined to win Thorin's favour on the dark, winding roads ahead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based upon this lovely prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=24429685#t24429685 
> 
> Second fill. The first can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2459657/chapters/5453060
> 
> Any similarities are purely coincidental and based upon either the prompt itself or similar headcanons. :)

Thorin Oakenshield didn’t possess many opinions concerning the Shire, nor it's rather peculiar inhabitants. It was simply a region he was obligated to pass through every now and again while he went about his business. He had hardly ever lingered more than an hour, and rarely had doings with it’s people.

 

That changed briefly on a warm, sunny day in early autumn.

 

Thorin was trudging along a crude dirt path that wound it’s way through the admittedly idyllic country. Everything was very green; lush with vegetation, trilling birds and fluffy, scurrying creatures. The air was congested with the heady scents of freshly cut grass and sun-baked blossoms. It felt as if the entire land was revelling in the final days of heat and light.

 

Sunset was a less than an hour away and Thorin's belongings had begun to weigh heavily on his shoulders. He had many miles yet to travel, and his thoughts strayed fleetingly to  _The Green Dragon_ , several miles back into Hobbiton. But he had decided against it already, preferring to work his way around the outskirts of the settlement, thereby avoiding many of the dwellings and the numerous, distrustful stares he would have received. He could abide a few lonely weeks on the road to Bree. Bofur had taken up temporary residence there, and _The Prancing Pony_ was a much more welcoming establishment to their kind.

 

He rounded a bend and wide, largely unpopulated lands materialised before his eyes -- a familiar sight. They stretched out ahead of him in rolling hills and hollow dips, dotted with plant-life, rife with unknown travellers and dangers. He felt unaccountably weary, thinking of the relatively short journey before him. There really was nothing to be done aside from pressing on; just as always.

 

Thorin was just passing a dense patch of greenery, mere centimetres from leaving Hobbiton behind, when he heard the sharp snap of a breaking branch, a child's startled yelp, and then a splash accompanied by a sickeningly hollow  _thunk_.

 

He halted at once, listening intently. When there was no pained groan or splashing footsteps to be heard, he dropped his laden pack unceremoniously to the ground and crashed his way through the undergrowth. Just beyond the tree line was a bubbling, stony brook cutting a cheerful path beneath the leafy shade. A small body lay face down in the shallow water, unmoving.

 

Chest constricting, Thorin didn't hesitate to rush in. Though hardly reaching his calves, the water thoroughly soaked his boots, socks and trousers as he grabbed the wee hobbit lad round the middle and hauled him from the brook.

 

To Thorin's immense relief, the moment the hobbit's face was freed from the water he began to cough and splutter, releasing a pitiful moan.

 

“Be still, little one,” Thorin admonished, as the sopping hobbit began wriggling weakly in his grip. He held the lad to his chest gently, but firmly as he waded out of the water and walked back to the lane. Thorin patted the halfling squarely on the back every now and again as the poor thing expelled more water from his lungs.

 

It wasn't until they were back on the path and standing safely next to his pack, that Thorin looked down to inspect the wee hobbit in the fading light. In addition to nearly drowning, there was also a painful lump on the hobbit's forehead, and a large gash at his temple that was bleeding profusely. Thorin realised his own front was already splattered with scarlet.

 

When Thorin pressed the sleeve of his tunic over the shallow but gushing wound, a pair of large blue-grey eyes peered blearily up at him through a nest of sopping blond curls. The hobbit blinked, then frowned, nose wrinkling as he saw that Thorin was indeed a dwarf.

 

“What were you doing, you foolish thing?” Thorin rumbled, more relieved than angry as he knelt slowly and drew a scrap of cloth from his pack; all the while keeping a tight hold on the lad. It was a spare cloth, for polishing his weapons, but he supposed this was as worthy a use as any.

 

“Here, hold this to your head.”

 

The hobbit did as he requested, the dazed look in his eyes only becoming more pronounced the longer he gazed at Thorin. It was beginning to feel disconcerting. Thorin briefly attempted to set him upright on the hard-packed earth, but the hobbit tilted severely, like a sapling caught in high wind, and Thorin had to catch him up once more.

 

“What were you doing climbing trees with night approaching?” Thorin asked again, hoping the lad hadn't lost the power of speech.

 

“Keeping watch for elves,” the hobbit said at last, voice faint. “They journey this way sometimes.”

 

“Is that right?” Thorin was always less than pleased to hear any tidings of any elf. He heaved his pack over one shoulder with difficulty while his other arm clutched the thin span of the hobbit's hips.

 

“Yes... I fell trying to climb down. The fireworks are starting soon. I suppose I shan't be going now.” He looked so downcast that Thorin had to bite back a bark of agitated laughter; it reminded him so of Kíli when Thorin had private talks and training sessions with Fíli _._

 

"I'm certain you won't miss anything,” Thorin said automatically, patience far beyond waned by the delay.

 

He hastened back into the depths of the Shire as fast as he was able without jostling the injured halfling too roughly. Not that Thorin thought the lad noticed much of anything. He was too busy putting pressure on his wound and leaning his head against Thorin's shoulder; he still seemed rather dazed. His free hand tangled in Thorin's long hair.

 

“Do you live in a cave?” the hobbit inquired, voice faintly slurred, when the silence had grown uncomfortably prolonged.

 

Thorin's thoughts flew immediately to Erebor. “No,” he answered, feet backtracking through Hobbiton grudgingly. His boots squished unpleasantly with every step. “We live in the large caverns beneath Ered Luin. The Blue Mountains,” he added for the lad's sake.

 

“Sounds like a cave,” the hobbit muttered. Then, more brightly: “Do you grow things there?”

 

The question was rather startling. “We create things.”

 

The hobbit sighed woefully, like he'd expected nothing less. “I have flowers and tomato vines to attend to before winter comes. I expect I can't bring them with us, though.”

 

Thorin listened to the halfling's rambling with a growing smile behind his beard. “Us?”

 

“When we are married.”

 

Thorin was truly in danger of laughing then, but wished to cause the halfling no further distress. “Why do you speak of matrimony? Aren't you a bit young for such considerations?”

 

“You saved me,” Bilbo told him solemnly.

 

“I did save you,” Thorin said quietly, mostly to himself. The bone-chilling image of that small body bobbing prostrate in the water (but with no one to fish him out this time around) came unbidden to Thorin's mind and he frowned deeply.

 

“That means we're bound to each other forever,” the halfling informed him seriously. “All the tales say so."

 

Thorin regarded him with bemusement, never having heard any such thing. He hadn't known there was any hobbit lore to speak of!

 

“You'll want to stay in the mountains, I suppose.” The halfling grimaced at his own words, a worry line appearing between his brows. “Is it cold there?”

 

And so, Thorin, deliberately ignoring the lad's folly concerning marriage (he must have hit his head harder than Thorin originally assumed), was goaded into telling all he knew of Ered Luin, which was a considerable amount. As he spoke of it, his mind consistently strayed to Erebor and his missing father.

 

The halfling proved to be an attentive listener in spite of his obvious concussion, drinking in Thorin's words eagerly and clutching one of Thorin's braids in a fat fist.

 

The black, jewel studded veil of night had fallen by the time they'd reached the centre of Hobbiton. It was bustling with an unusual amount of activity. At first Thorin assumed that the hobbits were forming a search party for the halfling in his arms, but the both of them were spared only passing, mistrustful glances from the other hobbits before they moved on, clearly intent upon something else.

 

 

“What's happening?” Thorin inquired.

 

The lad looked at him like he was daft. “I told you; fireworks. We nearly always have a show when Gandalf visits.”

 

“ _The_ Gandalf? Gandalf the Grey?” Thorin asked, startled.

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

The mere thought that the reputable, travelling wizard would visit the Shire to please it's people with a _firework_ display was farcical; risible. Not nearly as risible as picturing the obstinate, robust creatures mixing up the explosive powders necessary to create fireworks themselves, however.

 

“Where is the nearest healer to be found?” Thorin asked, hoping that whomever it was would be free to take the halfling off his hands.

 

The lad pointed him in the right direction, looking about gloomily at his chattering fellows. “I hope I'm still able to go,” he repeated.

 

Thorin didn't answer, simply hastened to the healer's premises, wending his way between the excited throng of hobbits with care.

 

The healer, a particularly fat, red-faced specimen, didn't mention either fireworks nor Gandalf, but Thorin saw the way her eyes lingered on the clusters of hobbits chattering boisterously together.

 

“C'mere then,” she groused, snatching the halfling from Thorin's arms without bothering to evaluate the situation. “I'll make sure 'e gets 'ome alright, and that 'is injuries are well treated. This un's in 'ere all the time. I'll send for 'is parents straight off.”

 

Thorin nodded. “Thank you.”   _The Green Dragon_  was truly out of the question now. He didn't wish to be sought for an explanation by the halfling's parents. He readjusted his pack, contents hopefully none the worse for wear after being discarded so forcefully. Nothing  _sounded_ broken. 

 

“Wait!” The lad called, as Thorin turned to depart for Bree again. “Tell me your name.”

 

“Thorin,” he called back, through the cacophony. “I am Thorin Oakenshield.” As ever, he proclaimed his title with a conflicting mixture of pride, shame and defiance.

 

“I'm Bilbo Baggins,” the hobbit shouted as Thorin retreated, voice thin, hapless; he was still grasping Thorin's scrap of cloth to his face like it was something precious. He yelled many other things, as well, but Thorin couldn't discern them and didn't go back to find out. He'd hoped to have already set up camp by this time and have a nice fire blazing; he wasn't wasting any more time.

 

Thorin sent the halfling one last forced smile through the crowd and lifted his hand in farewell before keeping on his solitary way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is the chapter that was never meant to be! *dramatic music* I was intending to make a vague reference to a conversation Gandalf and Bilbo once had... and ended up writing it. -_- Oh well. Thorin and co. will turn up next chapter.**

 Bilbo Baggins took careful aim, grasping the smooth stone in his pudgy fist with supple strength. The brown-hued bird he'd set his sights on continued twittering away happily to it's colleagues, blissfully unaware of Bilbo's watchful eye tracking it's every minute movement.  


He breathed in slowly through his nose, cocked his arm back, then flung the stone as hard as he could at his target with devastating accuracy. The stone struck the bird squarely on breast. It rose to the air in a flurry of wings, screeching shrilly as it flew off, accompanied by a multitude of it's fellows.  
  


Bilbo leapt to his feet, punching the air with his victory. He hadn't missed a single target all afternoon! He knelt and selected another stone.  
  


“What on  _ _earth__  are you doing, Bilbo Baggins?” A familiar, irascible-sounding voice inquired sternly.  
  


Bilbo startled and twisted about (nearly whacking his toes on a stump in the process) to face the tall, grey-clad wizard looming behind him. The stone clutched in his hand promptly tumbled back to the ground. He laced his fingers behind his back and attempted to appear inconspicuous.  
  


“Nothing,” he stammered a little too quickly, voice pitched several octaves higher than usual. “Just admiring the trees. They look so beautiful this time of year.”  
  


“Don't lie to me Bilbo Baggins. I saw you throwing rocks at those birds.” Gandalf pointed an accusing finger at him.  
  


Bilbo blushed down to his toes with shame. “I didn't hurt them, just scared them a little.”  
  


Gandalf's bushy eyebrows seemed to bristle. ”That's no excuse! I'd like to hear you explain that to Radagast, if he ever caught you. He'd have transfigured you into a rabbit for a month for such insolence.”  
  
  
But Gandalf's anger seemed to dissipate even as he spoke, and he leaned heavily upon his staff, gaze sharp on Bilbo. “That was a exemplary shot, nevertheless. You have a keen eye.”  
  


“Thank you,” Bilbo replied uneasily, both cautious and pleased. He began edging in the direction of civilisation and out of Gandalf's line of sight.  
  


“Where do you think you're off to?”  
  


Bilbo shrugged non-committally. “Just walking.”  
  


“No need to flee on my account.” Gandalf lowered himself to the tree stump and adjusted his frayed robes, laying his twisted staff across his knees. “Your father sent me for you,” he explained. “He informed me that you were meant to be sitting out in the garden – resting, not off chasing elves and climbing trees. I see now that you've been doing neither.”  
  


Bilbo scuffed at the ground with his toes. “It was boring.”  
  


“Indeed.” Gandalf's eyes slid past him, and he seemed amused. “What are those supposed to be?” he barked, gesturing with his staff to where several slender branches were piled in a small, defeated heap; leafless and splintered. “Were you trying to start a forest fire, as well?”  
  


“I was trying to make a sword,” Bilbo confessed with defensive embarrassment. “But I haven't the skill.”  
  


“And then you decided to throw rocks at innocent creatures instead, I suppose,” he said, causing Bilbo to blush again. “But what would  _ _you__ be needing with a sword?” Gandalf inquired curiously, eyes glittering with patent amusement.  
  


Bilbo's hand jumped to the linen bandage adorning his head, and a bashful, unwitting grin lit up his face. “For my journey to the Blue Mountains. When my betrothed returns, I must be ready to face the dangers of the road.”  
  


He saw by the glint in Gandalf's faded blue eyes that this wasn't news. “Ah, yes,” he hummed deeply. “Your mother told me that she is quite pleased with your prospects.”  
  


Bilbo smiled, flushing with pleasure. “He could return at any time. I have to be prepared,” he told Gandalf earnestly.  
  


Gandalf eyed him with immense interest, pondering his words. “Hand me that branch over there; it will make an admirable sword. Well... a practise sword anyway.”  
  


Bilbo seized the branch he'd indicated and passed it over, watching with astonishment as Gandalf pulled a carving knife out of the folds of his threadbare robes and set to work on it. Smooth curls of wood floated serenely to the grass at Gandalf's booted feet, forming a layer of soft golden-brown shavings. Bilbo plopped down on the ground beside Gandalf, sifting through the shavings with his fingers, resigned to having the wizard keep him company.  
  


“So, tell me more about your suitor. He's a dwarf, I hear.”  
  


Bilbo sensed a deeper significance behind the inquiry that surpassed simple curiosity, but he couldn't begin to guess at what it might be. “I don't know much about him myself, only that he hails from the Blue Mountains. I think he's a smith,” he added.  
  


“Hmmm, is that right?” Gandalf muttered. “Did he provide a name?”  
  


“Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo said with indecent reverence.   
  
  
He recalled three nights previously when his mother had tucked him into bed after plying him with camomile tea and a toasty dressing gown. The fireworks had still been bursting from miles off, painting the shadow-darkened walls of his bedroom with flickering plumes of colour; splashes of cheerful greens and flaming reds, majestic purples and enchanting gold.  
  
  
His father had lingered in the door frame, brass suspender buckles gleaming in the low-burning hearth fire. He had shifted from foot to foot, grimacing forlornly. Before putting Bilbo to bed they'd wrangled an explanation of his injuries out of him. When he'd told them that his saviour was a dwarf his mother had grown incredibly boisterous whilst his father (who was not a talkative hobbit at the best of times, unless it was to coin a phrase) had grown utterly mute.  
  


After ascertaining that the duvet was draped perfectly across his shoulders, his mother had sat on the edge of his bed and carefully brushed his fringe back from his eyes. Her face had been brimming with pride as she'd spoken to him of valiant Took deeds – recounting battles won, and the unions of various great aunts, uncles and grandparents who'd fought side by side in battle. Bilbo had heard them all before, many times over, but now they seemed to hold a deeper meaning to him, beyond heroic family legends.  
  


“You know it's a sign,” she'd informed him knowledgeably, “that you'll marry. When one saves the life of another, it leaves it's mark; an unbreakable bond. Believe me, this Oakenshield will be back one day.”  
  


This statement had been followed by the soft shuffle of his father's feet, and when Bilbo had looked over, he'd seen him retreating down the hallway, muttering about tidying up the kitchen. Bilbo had felt sorry for making him uncomfortable, but it couldn't really be helped. After all, the most adventurous thing his father had ever done was marry a Took, and that had been quite enough for him.

 

Bilbo's mother had sighed and kissed him goodnight after that, promising to look in on him again in an hour or so, and whisked off after her husband. Bilbo had lain awake long afterwards, lost in a haze of wonder, fervour and mysticism. A squirming, excitement had warmed his belly as he pictured Thorin Oakenshield's face, imaging all the adventures they'd have together. He'd miss the Shire, and his family, but it would all be worth it.

  


He hadn't had a peaceful night's sleep since.  
  


Bilbo was pulled from his remembrance by the abrupt halt of Gandalf's hands. The wizard was frowning, the lines creasing his brow deepening.

  


“Oakenshield...” Gandalf murmured speculatively, eyes gazing _through_ Bilbo and the world around them as if they weren't there. “Was he travelling alone?”  
  


Gandalf was certainly asking a good deal of questions.  
  


“I think so. Heading for Bree, I'd imagine.” Then it dawned on Bilbo. “Do you know him?” His voice nearly broke in his excitement.  
  


“No,” Gandalf said after a brief pause. “I am afraid I don't know him.”  
  


Disappointment washed through Bilbo, seeping into his bones and lodging heavily in his chest. “Oh...”  
  


Gandalf shifted on his tree stump and resumed carving, observing the sudden gloominess that had flooded his countenance. “Would you like me to tell you of the Lothlórien elves?” he asked suddenly, clearly in an attempt to cheer him.  
  


Bilbo perked up at it all the same. “Yes, please.”  
  


Gandalf chuckled, and raised a grizzled eyebrow as he began speaking; filling Bilbo's head with talk of the Silvan elves, the incredible forests of Mallorn trees, and vague tidbits concerning Galdriel and Celeborn. Bilbo didn't understand most of it, but he enjoyed listening all the same.  
  


By the time Gandalf had finished his narrative some twenty minutes later, he'd also completed the rather small sword. He presented it to Bilbo with a grand flourish, hilt first. “There you are!”  
  


Bilbo grasped the hilt with delicacy, and brandished it. Though crudely hewn and blunt, it was thin, light, and well-balanced, twice the length of his forearm. He whipped it through the air with a sharp swish, smiling expansively. “Thank you,” he breathed.  
  


“You're very welcome,” Gandalf said, rising from his seat with a protest of limbs. “Remember, you must practise every day or you shan't improve. Now come along, or your father will have my hat.”  
  


“Can you tell me more about the Eldar?” Bilbo asked shyly, trotting quickly to keep up with Gandalf's longer strides, turning his first sword in his hands and inspecting the point. He wondered when he could have one with true steel.  
  


“Certainly!” Gandalf exclaimed, digging out his pipe. “Though, in all my years I don't believe I've met such an inquisitive hobbit.”  
  


Despite his gruff tone, Bilbo sensed the compliment there and listened with awe to Gandalf's stories all the way back to Bag End.

*******

Over the ensuing years, Thorin – to Bilbo's dismay – did _not_ return, but for a time Gandalf's visits to the Shire grew almost daily, and he always made a point of stopping in to see Bilbo. They would walk together beneath the stars and speak of elves and forgotten happenings. Sometimes Gandalf regaled him also with the histories of men and dwarves, but Bilbo found those to be ponderous and less interesting.  
  


As Bilbo approached his tweens, Gandalf's visits gradually lessened until eventually they vanished entirely, and even his face faded into obscurity in Bilbo's mind. The older he grew the less he played with wooden swords, practised stone throwing, studied maps, and traversed the uncharted paths and forests of Hobbiton. When his parents died and he fell early into his inheritance, Bilbo put aside most of his childish notions, becoming the respectable hobbit his father had always longed for him to be.  
  


 However, as vigorously as he denied or pretended to forget his erstwhile fancies, always in the back of his mind, he knew that he was simply waiting. Waiting – sometimes patiently, often restlessly – for the day when Thorin Oakenshield returned to the Shire for the purpose of claiming his hand.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Family stuff. :S

It was a rare occurrence for Bilbo to experience feelings of such profound unrest and anger that he felt an acute yearning to tear free from his own skin. As he fell back and allowed a horde of ravenous dwarves (led by the infernal wizard Gandalf) to attack his food stores and eat from his his best china, he concluded that he would have loved to do nothing less at that very moment.

His appetite fled rather swiftly after several minutes of watching the vulgar, impetuous creatures scarf his food and down his quality ale like it was goblin drivel, goaded by Gandalf's obvious merriment. Their shouts and laughter left him internally cringing, choler rising quick as lightening until it was a battle not to scream at them, to force them to hear his complaints.

The last time he'd been this incensed was very shortly after his mother died, when the Sacksvlle-Baggins' had come round to Bag End, veiled in black and false sympathy. Lobelia had carried a dish filled with an unappetising-looking casserole whilst her children bobbed behind her skirt, leaning around her audaciously every few seconds to make faces at him. Otho had stood impassively by her side, thumbs tucked behind his suspenders, face artfully blank as his wife professed her deepest sorrow for Bilbo's loss and promptly followed the sentiment by offering him a truly heinous bargain for the acquisition of Bag End. He'd slammed the door in her face and spent entirely too many hours afterwards seething. He hadn't bothered finding a way to channel his anger back then, and he couldn't now, choosing simply to wallow in it.

If it wasn't for Gandalf's presence, ho  _ho_ , he'd have had  _truly_  discourteous things to spew at these dwarves!

The situation being what it was, Bilbo just fell into dour stuttering, trying to feel less invisible. The saddest part of the entire affair, was that he couldn't decide if he was angry because of the intrusion into his cosy routine or because he secretly wanted to join in their mirth.

At one point, while attempting to tell off a dwarf for using his great grandfather's letter opener to carve up a large slice of ham, Gandalf shoved a buttered roll into his hand and said: "You must be starving, Bilbo. Do eat a little, at least. We shall be up rather late, I fear."

Gandalf patted him on the shoulder and strode off before Bilbo had a chance to voice his protestations, so he took a half-hearted nibble. When one of the younger dwarves asked if he was going to eat it, Bilbo handed it over wordlessly.

His bad mood was only exacerbated by the state in which his guests had left the kitchen and (most particularly) the bathroom - then transformed to full-fledged panic when the youngest dwarf approached him somewhat shyly and inquired politely about what to do with his plate. Bilbo hardly had a chance to open his mouth before the dwarves began tossing his mother's china around and singing boisterously about smashing plates and blunting knives, completely ignoring his frantic objections.

When he managed to shove his way into the kitchen, it was to see the dishes stack haphazardly on the table, but clean and quite unbroken. An unwitting smile flickered across his face, before three, heavy knocks were delivered upon the front door. He froze in horrified disbelief and all the dwarves fell mum.

 _No more. Oh, Elbereth, please no more dwarves,_  Bilbo begged silently.

He noted, with a generous amount of apprehension, that expressions of anticipation had spread collectively over every dwarf's hairy face.

"He is here," Gandalf intoned with a strange solemn, excitement. "Bilbo, answer the door, if you will."

"W- _who_  is here?" Bilbo asked in a reticent undertone.

There was an unmistakable sparkle in Gandalf's eyes that Bilbo disliked. "You will see. Now, go on then. It's rude to keep him waiting upon the doorstep."

Bilbo bristled at Gandlaf's interpretation of 'rude', but he muttered "all right" just the same. He stalked to the foyer, the pack of dwarves and Gandalf's looming form trailing behind. Bilbo found the abrupt quiet after such relentless commotion to be quite eerie. Feeling prickly, he made a motion to roll up his sleeves (a common nervous gesture of his) only to find that he'd already done so.

His home looked strange to him as he traversed it now, messy and dangerous – a nameless menace. His own, round front door seemed to resemble the maw of some abnormal beast.

When Bilbo reached the door he took a deep breath and grasped the burnished handle, feeling it slide a bit beneath his sweaty palm. Imagining in vivid detail an eight foot troll armed with a deadly spiked club lying in wait on the step, he turned the knob and swung the door open quickly, for what he desperately hoped was the final time that night.

Bilbo's hand became immovable stone around the doorknob and his mouth gaped stupidly as he stared his newest, uninvited guest in the face.

Thorin Oakenshield stood on the other side, looking almost exactly the same as Bilbo remembered, though his hair was now streaked with a liberal amount of grey, and his face appeared far more careworn. It was as if every ounce of oxygen had been sucked from his lungs and his legs had turned to slender reeds incapable of bearing his weight. He leaned heavily upon the door, mouth forming Thorin's name without a sound emerging.

Thorin's cerulean eyes lingered briefly on him, and he appeared slightly bemused by Bilbo's mute mouthing. Then his gaze drifted over Bilbo's shoulder and settled on someone standing behind him.

"Gandalf," Thorin intoned deeply, stepping forward. For an unbalanced moment, Bilbo thought Thorin was going to embrace him (he himself was possessed with an intense desire to do so), but he only sidestepped Bilbo as if he were an umbrella stand, passing so close that his hair tickled Bilbo's face.

Bilbo felt as if his imaginary troll has squashed him flat with that club after the blatant dismissal, shredding his thinning hopes like tissue paper. He closed the door and hovered there awkwardly while Thorin greeted Gandalf and his fellow dwarves, divesting himself of his heavy travelling cloak. Bilbo was so lost in his growing bewilderment that he couldn't even muster a weak protestation at the fact that Gandalf had treated his newly painted door like a carving block.

"Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf began, startling him out of his abrupt decline into shock by clasping him him firmly on the shoulder when he saw how pale he'd grown. "Meet the leader of our company: Thorin Oakenshield."

Bilbo ducked out from under Gandalf's familiar touch and sent him a look of profound indignation for thinking he could he fail to recognise the latest addition to their dinner party. He was about to voice this aloud when Gandalf nudged him firmly between the shoulder blades until he was looking into Thorin's face.

"So..." Thorin said, advancing on Bilbo with arms held tightly across his chest and head tilted back in a breathtaking display of arrogance. He didn't halt until he and Bilbo were practically nose-to-nose. "This is the hobbit."

"It's me," Bilbo agreed quietly, not certain what else he was supposed to say. He wanted to look to Gandalf for help, but he couldn't avert his eyes from Thorin's, hundreds of shades of intersecting blues entrapping him mercilessly. Thorin smelled of leather, metal, fur and pine, and Bilbo inhaled sharply, head swimming.  _I'm_   _not ready_ , a cowardly part of him wanted to confess.  _I've been waiting my whole life, and I'm still not ready to go with you!_

Thorin began circling Bilbo slowly and a flush rose on his neck as he stood alone and helpless before Thorin's lazy scrutiny, heart beating at a hummingbird's pace.

"Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?"

Bilbo – already quite taken aback both by Thorin's sudden reappearance and his haughty demeanour– struggled with the absurdity of the question and found no answer.

"Axe or sword? What is your weapon of choice?" Thorin insisted.

Bilbo rocked back slightly, eyes finally flitting away from the harsh, insolent stare as his mind flashed immediately to his old wooden sword which he'd used to batter numerous tress into submission... It seemed unseemly to mention that, however.

"Well, I do have some skill at conkers, if you must know, but I don't know why you'd find that relevant." His tone was more cheeky than intended and his face warmed with embarrassment, knowing instinctively that it was the answer Thorin had expected and that he would think less of Bilbo because of it. All of which served only to leave him more flustered and confused than he'd been in recent memory.

"Thought as much," Thorin stated, coming to a halt in front of him again – looking  _down_  on Bilbo. "He looks more like a grocer than a burgler," he said to his companions, giving Bilbo a wry grin. It... wasn't a nice expression.

The dwarves chuckled in appreciative aggreemant at his words and Gandaf joined in their laughter unenthusiatically as Thorin shouldered his way past them to the kitchen. Bilbo felt quite bewildered by what had been clearly intended as an insult. Why should he wish to be seen as a burgler? Didn't Thorin remember him? Why was he mocking him so?

When he and Bilbo were the only ones left, Gandalf sagged against the doorframe and emitted a huff of relief. He smiled down at Bilbo a moment later. "We're off to a good start, I believe. Get some dinner into him and perhaps things will go more smoothly."

As Gandalf turned to follow the dwarves, Bilbo gripped the back of his robes to stop him. The sensation of the rough, travel-worn fabric bunching between his fingers grounded him.

"Gandalf," he whispered hoarsely. The words he wanted to say caught in his throat. His intended had finally returned to him and all he could feel was dread and trepidation. "Why is he here?" Bilbo was starting to suspect it wasn't for some dwarvish marriage ritual. 

Gandalf's discomfitted expression at  Bilbo's query as good as certified it. 

"He doesn't know me, does he?" Bilbo asked at last, every syllable a burning ember as it rolled off his tongue. The accusation in his own voice surprised him with it's utter sincerity.

"I don't know," Gandalf said gently, sadness (and could that be guilt?) deepening the lines in his face. Bilbo felt like he'd been kicked in the diaphragm at the admission, and his limbs weighed him down, floor begging to swallow him whole. "But he's had a wearying journey, and there is much yet to be decided before the night is done. We should join them before they begin making decisions rashly."

Bilbo released Gandalf reluctantly and followed him, trying to keep his head up and bundling what courage he could find to his chest for safekeeping.

**OOO**

With trembling hands, Bilbo set a bowl of hardy lamb and barely soup in front of Thorin, along with a plate of freshly baked rolls. If Thorin noticed the quivering, he refrained from mentioning it. Or perhaps he was too ravenous to care. Bilbo drew back almost instantly and endeavoured to make himself smaller than the tiniest weevil as he settled against the wall behind Gandalf's chair, listening to the proceeding conversation with little interest, unable to tear his sight from Thorin's face for long. Bilbo eyed the swoop of his nose and the arch of his brows – eventually drifting further down to examine his ruddy cheeks and and the curve of his thin lips behind a neatly trimmed beard.

If Thorin noticed, he ignored that, as well, wholly engrossed in his dwarven business.

 _My betrothed_ , Bilbo pondered with wonder, hands curling into loose fists. He was a little different than Bilbo's overzealous imagination had recalled, but more handsome, he decided, a dangerous hope burgeoning in his chest.  _He must remember me. Somewhere in that thick, dwarvish skull._

Bilbo's thoughts were re-directed abruptly when the word "quest" passed Thorin's lips.

"You're going on a quest?" he inquired into the proceeding silence, insecurities quite forgotten for a minute, interest fully piqued at the word in connection with Thorin.

To his discontent, no one answered – they simply stared at him until Gandalf requested a candle. Bilbo obeyed promptly, eager for something to do other than standing there awkwardly.

When he returned, he saw that Gandalf had laid a map on the table in front of Thorin, and Bilbo couldn't resist leaning over to peer at it.

"The Lonely Mountain," he read aloud, eyes roving ardently over the beautifully drawn lines: drinking in the array of unfamiliar locations with strange names, and the cluster of foreign characters on the side.

His interest waned more speedily than it had surfaced, once a dragon (one that thrived  _outside_  of the written word) was brought into things and the dwarves all began shouting angrily amongst themselves. Bilbo stood a polite distance away, deeply unsettled, while Thorin rose to his feet and shouted intelligibly in dwarvish.

Against his will, Bilbo's interest was once again renewed by Thorin's fervent, rousing speech and Gandalf's unveiling of a large, tarnished, silver key which he bestowed upon Thorin, it's rightful owner. The stark wonder on Thorin's face made him look half a lad, and it did curious things to Bilbo's stomach.

"The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth and no small amount of courage," Gandalf told the table, looking pointedly at Bilbo. Thorin did too, though with an entirely different expression, causing Bilbo's chest to constrict painfully. "But if we are careful and clever, I believe that it can be done."

"That's what why we need a burgler!" the youngest dwarf exclaimed.

"And a good one too. An expert, I imagine," Bilbo informed them obliviously, glancing once more at the map.

"And  _are_  you?"one of the dwarves inquired.

"Am I what?" he asked blankly, looking up to see every eye trained on him.

"He said he's an expert!" Another dwarf proclaimed happily after a moment of tense silence.

"No, no! I'm not! I've never stolen a thing in my life!" he protested indignantly, bruised by the accusation.

"I'm afraid I have to have to agree with Mr. Baggins here. He's hardly burgaler material," the oldest dwarf said.

"No," Bilbo agreed weakly, confused as to why he was beginning to feel affronted in a different way.

"Aye," his brother responded darkly. "The wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves."

Bilbo opened his mouth angrily to protest to that too, then closed it as all the dwarves started grumbling again, another argument brewing.

"Enough!" Gandalf proclaimed, standing to his full height and quieting the chatter. "If I say Mr. Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is!"

Bilbo nodded his head sharply in agreement, then, realizing with horror what he'd just done, attempted to backtrack as Gandalf listed Bilbo's supposed attributes.

"Well, I mean, no-"

"You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company and I've chosen Mr. Baggins," Gandalf carried on, heedless of Bilbo's reluctance. "There's a lot more to him than appearances suggest. And he's got a great deal more to offer than any of you know. Including himself."

Bilbo's heart warmed at the somewhat backhanded compliment, then fear coalesced like an icy fist in the pit of his stomach at the thought of facing a dragon.

"You must trust me on this," Gandalf wheedled, leaning in close to Thorin.

The entire company waited with bated breath.

"Very well," Thorin said eventually, quietly. "We will do it your way. Give him the contract."

Bilbo wanted to refuse, but he was far too conscience of Thorin's presence to protest further, and accepted the document wordlessly. He carried it a few feet away to read in relative privacy. When unfolded, the paper slipped nearly to the floor.

Bilbo read through the document anxiously, feeling dwarvish eyes crawling over his hunched shoulders, judging every sound, every musculature twitch.

"Lacerations," Bilbo murmured softly to himself, "evisceration. Incineration?!" He pivoted around and regarded them all with candid disbelief.

"Aye. He'll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye," a dwarf confirmed jovially.

"Oh," Bilbo squeaked, looking everywhere except at the curious eyes.

"You all right, laddie?"

"Yes, yes. I'm fine," he panted, even as his palate flooded with saliva, vision blurring alarmingly at the edges. He bent over, puffing quick breaths, hands planted on his thighs as his stomach heaved.

"Think furnace with wings," that dwarf said, standing and leaning towards him.

Bilbo released what could only be described as a whimper.

"Flash of light, searing pain, then  _poof_! You're nothing but a pile of ash."

Bilbo glanced over and caught sight of the dwarves staring at him with a predictable range of expressions: mostly amused, a few sneers, one of pity: then Thorin's gaze, steady and unreadable. Bilbo drew in a massive breath, held it, and released it slowly through his teeth – relinquished his panic to the soft cushions, polished wood, and homey smells of Bag End.

"I-I'm afraid I shall need an hour or so to reflect upon this," he gasped as confidently as he could manage, standing straight and brandishing the parchment to the table at large. Then he fled the room with quick, tottering steps to the sitting room, plonking himself in one of his favourite armchairs, next to the blazing fire. He rubbed the rough paper between his soft fingertips and tried not to hyperventilate as the others concluded their planning.

Gandalf entered a few minutes later, just as Bilbo was calming, bearing a mug of tea and what he must have deemed encouraging words, waxing poetic about Bilbo's younger, foolhardy days.

"I'm not that hobbit anymore," Bilbo interrupted him, clutching the mug tightly, burning his hands. Saying it out loud made him sad. "I'm a Baggins of Bag End. And I-" He took a deep breath, anger spilling out.

"Why would you put me in this position, Gandalf?" he demanded, his hurt embarrassingly palpable. "You  _know_  how I feel about..." he let the sentence drift, uncomfortable voicing his emotions concerning Thorin. "I thought that he was..."

"You thought what, exactly?" Gandalf asked.

Bilbo lowered his voice to the barest whisper. "I thought he was here to..." he trailed of again and hit the arm of the chair with frustration, causing searing droplets of tea to splatter his chest. "Why didn't you tell me he was coming? That he doesn't remember me  _at all_?"

"Bilbo-"

"I wasn't made for the road," he interrupted again, louder, drowning the plea. "Just  _look_  at me." He gestured to his paunchy stomach with a sharp twitch of his wrist.

Gandalf took a deep breath, one that Bilbo was familiar with from years of listening to him tell stories. "Did I ever tell you the tale of old Bullroarer Took?"

"No," Bilbo answered wearily, dissatisfied with the sudden change in topic. "But I know the stories, well enough."

"It's good for you to be reminded," Gandalf pressed, launching into a ridiculous and mostly fabricated tale.

After some more unnecessary, attempted persuasion, Gandalf allowed Bilbo to get up and go to his room after he stridently expressed the desire for complete, Dwarf-free solitude. He left the contract on the chair, safely (and wisely) unsigned.

Comfortable as his bed was, Bilbo was unable to find rest, tossing and turning for hours. Thorin's judgemental gaze and mocking tone invaded his thoughts and waking dreams. He drifted to consciousness at one point, to the sounds of harmonious, baritone singing carrying down to him from the sitting room. He curled up in bed, clenching the blankets, still undecided.

**OOO**

The pleasant, homely sitting room in Bag End made Thorin irritated and angry in ways he couldn't begin to pinpoint. He stared deeply into the hearth fire until it felt as if the flames would be forever superimposed over his retinas. A fiery veil shielding his sight from the hopelessness of their quest. Though it continued to blaze hot, only a thin sheen of sweat covered Thorin's brow. He was accustomed to working metal at forges, and even those were a bare whisper of flame compared to the great bellows of Erebor. Memories, stretched long and thin by overuse, returned to him, vague images that frustrated him more than anything else. He could no longer discern if they were real or simply dreams he'd had of Erebor.

The rest of his company had drifted off with Gandalf a short while ago to find places to sleep, leaving Thorin to his thoughts.

Now that he was alone, Thorin was finding it challenging to shake off the gloom that seemed intent upon weighing his shoulders down. So many doubts and worries. And constantly, more and more questions. Stacked one atop the other. He traced the heavy key in his breast pocket with firm fingers, pressing hard.

He was quite relieved when he heard the faint whisper of Gandalf's robes behind him, as the wizard meandered back to the sitting room, having returned from putting the dwarves to bed. Thorin leaned his forearm on the mantelpiece and waited until he heard Gandalf settle into a puffy armchair and adjust his grey robes.

"We cannot take the halfling," he said firmly, still glaring at the flames.

When Gandalf deigned not to reply, Thorin barrelled on. "I care not for your words or things spoken between us before. Your halfling is no burglar. If he comes with us he shall perish. And I – I do not want that on my conscience," he confessed, recalling how the hobbit had nearly fainted at Bofur's description of Smaug, just one of the many horrors they would likely be confronting. The worst one, assuredly, yet all the same...

Thorin most definitely did not want to dig into his discomfort at the way Baggins had been ogling him all through dinner, nor how his eyes had been round with awe and familiarity when he'd answered the door and discovered Thorin on the step. He wondered with exacerbation what sorts of tales Fíli and Kíli had been filling the hobbit's head with before he'd arrived. 

Again, Gandalf said nothing, but Thorin could tell that the wizard was thinking. He could almost hear the cogs turning in the wizard's brain as Gandalf extracted his pipe and went through the motions of cleaning, filling and lighting it before he addressed a thoroughly impatient Thorin.

"You say you care not for my words, but heed this," he said sternly. "If you do not allow Bilbo Baggins to accompany you, this quest will surely fail." The doom and certainty of his words cast black wings of doubt over Thorin's heart.

Still, he tried to press his point. "Please, tell me what you mean by  _accompany_ ," Thorin said with an over-abundance of disgust saturating his voice. All his frustrations with Gandalf poured out in the syllables as he rounded on the wizard. "He would only come with us if we gagged him and trussed him to a pony. At the first opportunity he would abandon us. Regardless of how distant we were from his homeland, he'd come sneaking back to his warm bed."

Gandalf's face had darkened considerably and he appeared not to have noticed that his pipe had gone out.

"Those things simply aren't true. You know not his heart, Thorin Oakenshield, and rely too much upon your first, cursory inspection to see the steel that lies beneath his gentle exterior," Gandalf insisted. He glanced down at his pipe and released a grumbled curse. He relit with a snap of his fingers and took a long pull.

"How could you possibly know this? Have you tested his worth before?" When Gandalf gave no answer except to avert his eyes, Thorin grinned humourlessly. "You speak in circles, leaving me no clear-cut answers, yet you expect me to acquiesce to your wishes."

"Have I lead you astray before?" Gandalf asked sharply, blowing a thin stream of smoke through his teeth. Too tense for colours and shapes, perhaps.

Thorin pursed his lips. They both knew the answer.

"A compromise then," Thorin said, locking his arms behind his back and facing Gandalf with his full height and authority.

"I'm listening," Gandalf huffed around the stem of his pipe.

"The hobbit can come... if he chooses to of his own accord. Without further cajoling from you and no further dissent from me or my company. Which means I don't want you urging him out of bed and throwing him onto a saddle."

Gandalf's brows drew so close together they formed a grey caterpillar over his deep-set eyes. "It will have to be agreeable to us both," he conceded eventually, pushing himself up from the armchair with some difficulty. "In the meantime, as it has grown quite late, we should rest before the morrow. Dawn is scant hours away."

Thorin nodded his approval and they made their way to the nice spare bedrooms set aside for their use, both confidant that they'd won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Phew* Finally getting out of Hobbiton. :P


End file.
